


Meet me here at 1

by Rain_GellerBing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmate AU, adult Marcus is way better, does it make sense?, i hope so, not too much but at least a little bit, not too much either but it's there somewhere, soulmate identifying marks, teen Marcus is a lil shit, the first words the soulmate has said (or will say) to the person appear on their 17th birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 07:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14184141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rain_GellerBing/pseuds/Rain_GellerBing
Summary: What would happen if Marcus was brave enough to tell Oliver they are soulmates as soon as he finds out?





	Meet me here at 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I am shopping while thinking what could have been the first words Oliver and Marcus have said to each other. I think I still have the receipt I wrote their first dialogue on. This is not something I should tell you.
> 
> I would like to thank my awesome beta Nari for always listening to my crazy ideas.

Oliver knew he was doing something stupid and reckless, but he couldn't stop himself. Maybe it was because of his stupid Gryffindor inability to say no to an adventure, or maybe it was because of his natural curiosity… anyway, the fact was that he was sneaking around the castle while everybody slept, no reason really needed.

 

He had found a note in his locker in the changing room that day.  _ Meet me here at 1 _ . It wasn't signed and Oliver didn't recognise the writing, so it wasn't one of his friends. And that made him way too curious to not go.

 

Who could it be? What would this other person want? Was it a prank? Oliver was ready for anything. He was very good at Charms, maybe a little less at DADA, but he could still manage to fight pretty well with his wand. And if it came to a fist fight, he knew his punches were good enough, because he had broken Flint's nose more times than he could remember.

 

Hogwarts was weirdly noisy at night, with the portraits talking (and complaining about a student out of his bed) and the noises old wood made in spring. It wasn't like Oliver was worried to get caught. The little noises were just distracting him from his thoughts. He had spent the entire day trying to figure out who could have sent the note and why, and he wasn't going to stop until he knew.

 

The chill air of the night hit him as he went outside. The park was dark, no moon was shining above, just a bunch of stars, that were reflecting on the still surface of the lake. If he had been in the mood, Oliver would have stopped to contemplate the beauty of that still, dark night, but he was too much in his head to even see the stars shining above.

 

It was almost one when he arrived at the locker room. The door was closed and the room was empty, and Oliver decided it was better that way. He could at least prepare himself for what – who – was coming.

 

When the doorknob turned, he held his breath... and it was only Flint.

 

He groaned.

 

“I am not in the mood to pick a fight, Flint.” he complained, rolling his eyes.

 

When no response came, Oliver dared to take a better look at Flint, who had come into the room closing the door, but not locking it. He didn't look like he always did, so sure of himself and ready to fight. There was no smugness in his features. Only... nervousness?

 

“What the hell is going on here?” Oliver furrowed his brows, so many questions in his head.

 

“May I know why you asked me to come here and now you're avoiding me, jerk?” Oliver asked again, because Flint was avoiding his gaze and it was fucking infuriating.

 

“Would you please shut the fuck up for one fucking second?” Flint barked, harsh. At least he turned to face Oliver, finally. With a death glare, but Oliver took it as an improvement, since at least he was acknowledging Oliver's existence.

 

That was when he realized that in the last few days he hadn't really seen Flint. Which was weird, with them being in the same castle. They bumped into each other on a regular basis, it was normal (sometimes Oliver suspected that the Slytherin Quidditch team didn't bump into the Gryffindor one by chance, but still). Oliver almost asked what was happening again, but something told him to shut up.

 

Flint was looking out of the window, to the moonless sky. “My birthday was three days ago.”

 

“Happy birthday?” Oliver didn't really know what to say. Was Flint somehow expecting a birthday present? What was going on?

 

“No, idiot.” Flint turned to face him again, with an annoyed expression that was far more familiar to Oliver than the nervous one from before. “My  _ seventeenth _ birthday.”

 

Oh.

 

Oliver started to think. But it wasn't possible.

 

“Oh, for fuck's sake, let's get over this.” Flint said, uncovering his left forearm.

 

Oliver had instantly a flashback.

 

It was his first game, and he was a twelve years old ball of nerves. He had never felt that bad, and never will. The only thing that kept him going was Charlie's reassuring smile.

 

When the green robes appeared on the pitch, some sort of fire started to burn inside him. He didn't want to show how worried he was to the enemy, especially when it was Slytherin. No way he was going to look weak in front of the snakes.

 

While Charlie and the Slytherin captain were talking, he heard someone bark a laugh, and he turned. He saw a third year, black locks messily put up in a bun and piercing grey eyes. Oliver remembers thinking that the boy would be cute, if his teeth weren't a mess and his face wasn't so long and pale – let’s remember that at twelve Oliver was still figuring himself out, trying to understand why he was happier to spend his time with Charlie rather than with other people.

 

“Hey Weasley, can I ask you a question?” the third year had asked, and Charlie had looked at him annoyed, even though his answer came in a strangely calm voice.

 

“Yeah, Flint?” the red-clad captain had asked, and the slightly shorter Slytherin had sneered.

 

“Who the hell is this midget?” Flint had laughed, pointing at Oliver, and making all his teammates snicker.

 

“Someone who can put up with you. Jerk.” Oliver spatted, rage starting to raise inside of him.

 

Flint had raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “You sure, lion cub?” and then he returned to talk to Charlie. “You are not really thinking about making  _ him _ play, right?”

 

Oliver didn't want to lose himself in his memories, not when his words were staring at him from Flint's forearm.  _ Someone who can put up with you _ .

 

Fuck.

 

He was Flint's soulmate.

 

At seventeen, wizards and witches received the soulmate mark. Somewhere on their body, some words would appear. The first words their soulmate had told them - if they had already met the soulmate - or would tell them - if the meeting was destined to happen in the future.

 

He was Flint's soulmate.  _ Soulmate _ .

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Well, that is not the worst reaction I could get. Good.”

 

Oliver darted his eyes to Flint's, while the other boy let his sleeve cover the soulmate mark.

 

Flint shrugged. “I broke a chair and started crying, so I'm impressed you took it better than me.”

 

There were way too many things to register, Oliver didn’t know what to focus on.

 

“I need to sit down.” Oliver felt his legs wobbling, so he reached one of the benches and just let himself fall on it heavily. Flint sighed.

 

“Sorry, but I think it's better to deal with this crap now rather than... when you get yours.” Flint pointed out, getting closer but not too close.

 

“Why wait three days?” Oliver asked, when the link between his brain and his mouth started to work again. That wasn't the first thing he wanted to ask, but it was still better than nothing.

 

“Well, I had to work out the fact that apparently my soulmate is a very manly dude, but that does explain some things.” Flint admitted, albeit a bit reluctantly. Oliver stared into his grey eyes, and he saw how painful it had been for Flint. For his  _ soulmate _ . Oh fuck.

 

“I'm sorry I'm not a cute pure-blood gal.” Oliver commented, a little bitter.

 

“Yeah, same. I'm sorry I am no brave handsome Gryffindor.” Flint retorted with the same tone. Oliver wanted to say something about that, but the words died in his throat. Darn it, what he would give to solve this with a couple of punches, like he had thought it would have ended when Flint had come into the room.

 

“So, what do you wanna do?” Oliver asked. He didn't know what he wanted, but at least Flint looked like a man with a plan. Or at least Oliver hoped that was the case.

 

“Do? Do you really think that we can  _ do _ something?” Flint scoffed, and somehow this was more painful for Oliver than realising that Flint was the person who, according to the universe, he was destined to love more than anyone else.

 

“I don't exactly come from a family that particularly cares about these kind of things.” Flint said. “They have kind of already found me a girl to marry after I graduate. Well, after she graduates, she's two years younger than me.”

 

Yeah, this hurt way more than the realization. Because now that he knew, now that he had seen his words on Flint's skin, he couldn't help but think about how  _ right _ it all was. How well they could actually work together. Flint was probably the only person in Hogwarts, the only person Oliver knew, who loved Quidditch as much as he did. He played dirty, sometimes, but it was because he cared.

 

And his eyes... oh, these fucking grey eyes. Oliver had always avoided them, because somehow he had always known that if he stared for too long he would have got lost in them.

 

Fuck. No way he was letting this go.

 

“No.” he said, voice low but firm.

 

“I am sorry?”

 

“No, I refuse to do nothing. There is a reason why it's you and not... I don't know, one of the Weasleys, or Pretty Boy Diggory. There is a reason why it's you and – it makes so much sense, doesn't it?” Oliver had gotten up, and closer to Flint, as the other boy didn't move. But Flint was frowning, and Oliver was sure his point wasn't getting across.

 

“Are you crazy? I am the heir of one of the oldest families of wizards in the whole world. I have some duties. They may be fucked up, but I still have to respect them.” Flint's eyes were dark with rage, something familiar to Oliver. “I have to marry a bloody perfect witch and produce heirs, which I think would be hard if I did follow what the stupid universe wants me to do.”

 

“You'd rather follow what your parents say? And not what the fucking universe says?” that sounded weird to Oliver but again, his parents were soulmates, and his sister had met her soulmate at school. It had been easy for them.

 

But Oliver was starting to realize that soulmates were not easy.

 

“Can the universe disown me? Throw me into the streets?” the sarcasm in Flint's voice almost felt like a slap in the face.

 

“Well, you have a point.” Oliver grumbled. He wanted so desperately to punch something, and sadly the only things around him would be too painful for his hand to punch. Apart from Flint, but no way he was punching him without a valid reason, now that he knew.

 

“Can we please talk about this another time? It's fucking late and I can't think.” Oliver asked, giving up for once. His brain wasn't working properly, he was too tired and maybe Flint was too darn close to him now, and he could smell on him the soap they used in the showers.

 

“Fine.” Flint grunted, and they parted.

 

They didn't talk again.

 

*

 

Flint had been avoiding him since that night in the locker rooms, and Oliver had a hard time to admit that it was fucking painful.

 

They were perfect. How could Flint not see it, he had no idea. Yeah, maybe they drove each other crazy from time to time, and maybe one of them coming from a rich pure-blood family could be a problem, but Oliver didn't understand why Flint wouldn't even try. Try to know him. Try to spend some time with him without wanting to kill each other. No way he wasn't feeling what Oliver felt.

 

The more time passed, the more Oliver started to feel helplessly alone. The more he avoided the topic, the more his brain made him think about it.

 

They were never alone, it was never the time to talk about a relationship, even about a fucking friendship.

 

When the words  _ You sure, lion cub? _ Appeared on his collarbone, Oliver let himself cry.

 

*

 

At some point, lying had become so natural to Oliver that when someone asked him about his soulmate, he just instinctively said “Oh, I haven't met him yet.”

 

At some point, lying had become so natural that he didn't even feel any pain, only an undying melancholy, that settled in his chest every time he was thinking about something that wasn't his Quidditch career.

 

The war had been the worst, but somehow Oliver had been saved by the knowledge that his soulmate wasn't in England at that time. It had helped, not having to think that Flint was on the other side, or that he was in danger like everyone else. Flint was safe and happily married to some Scandinavian beauty his family had somehow found for him, and he had moved wherever the girl was from as soon as he got married.

 

Knowing that Flint wouldn't be harmed had saved Oliver the trouble to worry about him. The trouble to be scared for another person. The trouble to be distracted from his own survival. Probably Oliver was alive only because of it, and if Charlie noticed anything about his mark, he hadn't said a thing.

 

But Oliver didn't think about all of that anymore. Not about the war, not about Flint. Everything was trapped in a box inside his head, a box he was careful not to open, no matter what. He was regarded as a war hero, so he didn't have to think about all the bodies he had to move from the battlefield. He was single at thirty, so he didn't have to think about his soulmate, but pretend he had never met him.

 

It was surprisingly easy to live like that, since he was too absorbed in his life as a professional Quidditch player to care about anything else. He lived and breathed for Puddlemere United, and if he had a couple of nightmares from time to time, who cared. He was usually too tired from practice to have trouble sleeping anyway.

 

Life goes on, right? And if the guy you are hooking up with asks you who called you 'lion cub', you say no one ever did.

 

It was easy. Really.

 

That's why this shouldn't have been a surprise, Oliver thought. That's why his hands shouldn't fucking tremble, and he shouldn't have been on the verge of fucking tears. Not in the middle of the locker room, with all of his teammates around, chatting. Some of them looked at him and asked him what was wrong, but he didn't even know where to start to talk about what was wrong.

 

What is wrong, he thought, is that people have the ability to know who their soulmate is. That is the problem. Knowing who your soulmate is is the worst thing that can ever happen. What if you don't love them? What if they don't love you? How does the universe explain that shit? How does the universe explain the... the feeling you have in your heart? That thing that is kind of like panic, kind of like pain, with a pinch of hopefulness and a spoonful of helplessness? Why does the fucking universe have to interfere with your life? You only wanted to play fucking Quidditch and pick up a random guy from time to time. You don't want to suffer for something that never happened, something that never could happen.

 

Oliver was able to arrive home before the first tear fell, the little piece of paper still in his fist, crumpled.

 

_ Meet me here at 1. _

 

It wasn't signed, but Oliver didn't need a name this time. The questions in his head were not about who. Oliver gritted his teeth as more tears fell down, his fist destroying the innocent piece of paper between his fingers.

 

Why. The only question this time was why, and it wasn't something Oliver wanted to hear.

 

Oliver didn't want an apology. How can one apologize for destroying your entire life? For depriving you from happiness? Oliver had never been in sync with anybody, not like his sister was with Steven or like his parents were. Oliver had never felt what it meant to be loved stupidly and unconditionally, like Katie with Alicia. But he knew he could live without an insincere apology.

 

Oliver didn't want to see him. So much time had passed, and he didn't want to see his ugly mug – Oliver scoffed at that, because he must have had some problem, since he was probably the only person in the world not to think that Flint's face wasn't ugly as hell, and Oliver had been through hell, so he could tell.

 

Oliver didn't want to hear his voice. Would it be different from all those years before? How much had Marcus Flint changed in what, thirteen years? Would he still be athletic? Would his damn grey eyes still be that magnetic? Would Oliver still feel like a moth in front of a candle, when facing them?

 

Yeah, the image of the moth and the candle did fit the situation well, Oliver thought, letting himself fall on the sofa. If he did go to the meeting, he knew he would be burned like the stupid moth. He wasn't going. He would stay home and read until sleep would be too strong, and then he would go to bed. He wouldn't go.

 

Yes, Oliver had become incredibly good at lying to himself.

 

*

 

Sneaking into Puddlemere's grounds at night wasn't as easy as it had been at Hogwarts – which pointed out how unsafe the damn school was. Oliver's watch said it was 1:14, and a small part of him hoped that he wouldn't find Flint in the locker room. He sighed, turning the doorknob and opening the door.

 

A man was sitting on the bench, and he got up as Oliver's heart sank.

 

Oliver didn't know what he had expected, but the man in front of him was nothing like he thought Flint would be. He had imagined something closer to the seventeen years old boy who had broken his heart, not... a man in his thirties. Oliver felt stupid, looking at Flint's black beard.

 

He was taller than Oliver remembered, or maybe it was only him feeling smaller than ever in front of his soulmate after all that time. Flint's eyes were a wall of smoke, rather than a stormy sky like in his teenage years, but the fire behind them was still lit, albeit a little less rebellious than before.

 

Flint looked fit in his suit – he was wearing a fucking  _ suit _ , for Merlin's sake – and his hair was cut short, as if he had decided not to hide his face with his curly locks anymore.

 

“Where is my punch?” Flint broke the silence, after a moment. They were still pretty far away from each other, but Oliver felt like they were already too close for his heart's sake.

 

“Your what?”

 

“My punch. I figured that the first thing you would do was punch me, not stare at me.” Flint explained, and there was something in his voice – it had indeed changed, becoming even deeper and  _ fuck _ , even sexier than before – that made Oliver want to punch him for real.

 

“Did they finally tame you at Puddlemere?” Flint chuckled. He fucking chuckled. How dare he.

 

“Can I still punch you?”

 

Flint laughed. “Yes, but only once. I deserve one punch, but if you want to do more you will receive accordingly.” Flint said, getting closer to Oliver and stopping exactly in the best spot to be punched.

 

Oliver lifted his arm, looking closely at Flint's face, too many emotions inside of him to understand what he was actually feeling.

 

Punching the guy turned out to be satisfying, though.

 

“Better than I expected.” he commented, as Flint massaged his cheek. He looked in pain. Good.

 

“Glad it felt good.” Flint muttered.

 

“What is that?” Oliver asked, pointing at Flint's other cheek.

 

“A scar Wood, can't you see that?” so the sarcasm was still there, uh.

 

“Well, sorry if I asked!”

 

“Don't use that annoyed tone with me. I am the one whose privacy is being invaded.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Quidditch accident, I almost lost my eye, six years ago.” Flint explained after a brief moment of silence.

 

Oliver gulped, but he had something else on his mind. “You still play?”

 

“Not professionally.” Flint shrugged, and Oliver nodded.

 

They fell into silence again, and Oliver realized how easy it was to be around Flint. Even after all these years, all that pain, they somehow were still able to talk. About punches and Quidditch, sure, but it wasn't like they had discussed many different topics when they were at school.

 

“You came.”

 

Oliver felt his legs weak when he stared into Flint's eyes. Fuck. Stupid eyes. The image of the moth with the flame of the candle came to his mind again, and he cursed himself for going at the meeting.

 

Oliver nodded, trying to look at anything else apart from Flint's eyes. It was something incredibly hard to do.

 

“Yeah.” he answered, weakly, after too much time.

 

“Oliver-”

 

“I don't want your apologies, Flint, and I don't want you to call me by my first name either.” Oliver said, harsher than ever. “Why are you here? Why are you back?”

 

Flint looked at him like a lost pup, but Oliver was too pissed off to find it cute.

 

“My wife has found her soulmate and... she left me. So I came back.”

 

Oliver froze. “Oh, so you come back when it's convenient for you and you expect me to simply run back to you? To tell you I missed you? Cause you have to know: I haven't.”

 

Lying really came easy to Oliver now. Flint sighed.

 

“I didn't think you'd be happy to see me. I told you to punch me, didn't I?” Flint almost looked shy, with his hands almost trembling. “I guess I just wanted you to know I'm back, and I decided to do it... in a weird way, for old times' sake.”

 

Oliver grunted. “Yes, make me re-live the night I got my heart broken for the first time. I appreciate the gesture.”

 

Flint sighed. “I am not asking you to forgive me.”

 

“Good. Because I don't intend to.” Oliver took a step back, crossing his arms and looking at Flint with all the disgust he could master.

 

“I just wanted you to know I'm back. I'm here.”

 

“And how is this gonna change anything, Flint?” Oliver asked with so much venom in his voice Flint flinched, something he had never done before.

 

“This is gonna change everything, O- Wood.” Flint's face contorted, like he was eating something extremely bitter. “I am here and I am not going anywhere.”

 

“Good for you.” Oliver commented. He couldn't stand to see Flint's face anymore.

 

“See you around.” he greeted, and then he went out into the night.

 

Thankfully, Flint didn't follow him.

 

*

 

It turned out that by 'This is gonna change everything', Flint meant that he would start showering Oliver with gifts.

 

It was annoying at first. The day after their nightly conversation, Oliver woke up with seven fucking owls bringing him flowers. Seven. Needless to say, he sent all of them back.

 

The result of his action was that the next day, instead of going to his house, the owls arrived in the middle of practice. It would have been funny, if it hadn't been bloody annoying.

 

It was during the first time the fucking birds showed up at practice – because it just kept happening – that Oliver found out that each fucking bouquet had a fucking poem attached to it. He found out because fucking Stevenson read one out loud.

 

Oliver turned of the same colour as his old Gryffindor jersey.

 

After the flowers came the chocolates, as if Oliver had been a six years old, or a squealing third year Hufflepuff.

 

He wanted to eat the chocolates so bad, but it didn't matter. He had decided not to take anything from Flint, not even a puppy (he had decided he would have taken kitties if Flint had ever sent them, but only because his house was weirdly empty now that Percy had moved out and got married and he was allergic to dogs).

 

No matter what, he wouldn't accept stuff from the man who broke his heart, even though that happened more than ten years before. Even though that person was his soulmate. Even though the poems made him smile because they were mostly about flying, and they were incredibly relatable. Even though resisting Belgian chocolate was harder than it should be.

 

It was after a crazy day, when Flint had sent three owls with yellow roses and poems and three with what Oliver thought were the most beautiful chocolate cakes he had ever seen, probably hoping that Oliver would get confused by the mix up and accept the gifts, that this kind of second grade courting period stopped. Oliver was grateful, but what came next was much worse.

 

Letters.

 

Fucking letters.

 

He was torn between reading them and burning them, so Oliver decided that the compromise would be ignoring them. It was way easier than ignoring Patton and Stevenson shouting the poems, or his coach telling him that he shouldn't eat all that chocolate if he wanted to stay in shape.

 

At the same time, he wanted to  _ know _ , and ignoring the letters became harder and harder. They piled up on his desk, and it was so damn hard not to open them. Maybe he should have actually burned them.

 

One night his resolve broke. In his defence, he was drunk. They had won against the Harpies, it had been hard and the match had lasted almost six hours, and even if the smallest of the Weasleys had caught the Snitch, Puddlemere had won. They had partied, and he had drunk. And when the pub closed and he went back home – damn it, he should have really adopted a cat, that place was too fucking empty without his zombie-ministry-assistant friend there – he just. Opened a random letter.

 

_ Wood, _

 

_ Saw you guys won the match against the Bats. I wasn't there, sadly, but I read the articles, and apparently you did a good job. You don't know how much I want to try to play against you one more time, but I'm afraid that to keep my pride intact I will never, ever again, throw a Quaffle in your general direction. _

 

Oliver couldn't bring himself to keep reading, but at the same time he wanted to read more, so he opened another one.

 

_ Wood, _

 

_ Today I have no fucking idea what to write to you. And you're probably burning these letters anyway. Who cares, I like writing to you. I wouldn't blame you if you did throw the letters away, though. Hell, I would do that too. _

_ Anyway, I was at the Ministry yesterday and I ended up meeting your friend Weasley. Weird guy. He never liked me in school, but since he was with some Wizengamot guy who knew me – he was a friend of my father – Weasley fussed all over me. I think he even said we were friends at some point, and really, it was difficult not to laugh. I played along, though, because... _

 

Fuck.

 

…  _ because I am not the little shit I was in high school anymore. And I hope these letters are proving this to you (if you are even reading them). _

_ I have to go now – some work came up. I would love to write some more to you, but if I stay here more my secretary is gonna hex me, or burn the letter herself, so yeah. I have to go. _

 

_ Always, hopefully, and helplessly yours, _

 

_ M. _

 

Oliver read the ending again.  _ Always, hopefully, and helplessly yours. _ He looked at the first letter he had opened, and he found out that it ended with the same five words. He opened other letters, without care of the content, only looking for the ending. It was always the same.

 

Always.

 

Hopefully.

 

Helplessly.

 

His.

 

Probably he had been crying for a while, but he realized in that moment that tears were filling his eyes so much that he couldn't see.

 

Oliver read Flint's letters all night, and he ended up falling asleep on the couch, surrounded by letters. They weren't love letters. They were just Flint's thoughts, notes about what he did on a particular day, or comments about how the season was going – in general, and not only for Puddlemere.

 

When he woke up, Oliver thought he had dreamed about it. All the paper around him told another story.

 

They weren't love letters, and that was what made them so much worse. So dangerous. Because, even though he didn't want to admit it, Oliver wanted to know what Flint was doing, what were his thoughts about anything, really, not only Quidditch.

 

When he woke up, Oliver took all the letters and hid them in a drawer, but when his daily letter arrived, he decided to read it during breakfast the next day.

 

And so he did. Oliver started every morning with Flint's letters. Never replying. Never reading the stupid last five words. They were surprisingly easy to ignore, once he knew they would be there.

 

*

 

“Flint did  _ what _ ?” Oliver asked getting out of the shower and wrapping himself in his towel.

 

“You know him?” Patton asked from his stall.

 

“Yeah. He was at Hogwarts with me.” Oliver mumbled. No way he was telling his teammates who Flint was, they were giving him enough shit with the 'little cub' thing already, they didn't need to know who had called him that.

 

“Anyway, he bought the Tornados. My sister wrote me to tell me she even got a raise.” Stevenson finished his story – his sister was the Tornados Seeker -, but Oliver wasn't really listening.

 

Flint had bought the fucking Tornados. No way the man didn't know he had been a huge Tornados fan when he was a kid. No way that was unintentional. No way Flint didn't know.

 

And the sly bastard hadn't even talked about it in his letters.

 

Oliver hated him so fucking much.

 

That was why he was smiling like an idiot at the idea that Flint bought the Tornados. Sure.

 

*

 

The Harpies won the championship, the Tornados came in second, Puddlemere third.

 

There Oliver was, at the stupid party for the end of the season, nervous as never before, because he knew that  _ he _ would be there and... Fuck.

 

Oliver nursed his drinks. He didn't intend to get shit-faced, like his teammates. Not in front of Flint. Not when he was already vulnerable.

 

He didn't want to forgive him, but at the same time he couldn't deny that the prospect of seeing Flint was appealing.

 

It was almost midnight when the other man – wearing a grey suit, for fuck's sake – sat next to him. Everyone else in the room looked too drunk to pay them any attention.

 

Shit. Flint's eyes were so fucking beautiful. Damn genetics, or whoever had given them to the guy.

 

“Heard you've got a tonshit of money.” Oliver commented, breaking the ice.

 

Flint snorted. “Buying the Tornados was cheaper than buying Montrose.” he commented, and then he drank from his glass. “And it was the only way to get close to you without pissing you off too much, while also enjoying the sport I love.”

 

It was Oliver's time to snort. “You bought my childhood favourite team and you think I'm not pissed at you?” His tone wanted to be harsh, but he was smiling. Fuck.

 

Flint smiled at him, and then he drank again. “Told you, it was cheaper than Montrose.”

 

“Cut the bullshit, Flint.”

 

Flint sighed. “What did you do with my letters?”

 

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

 

“What? You never answered, and you never told me to stop sending them. I'm just curious.” Flint explained, looking in front of him and avoiding Oliver's gaze.

 

Well, here he went. “I... I read them.”

 

Flint closed his eyes.

 

“I really liked them.” Oliver added, feeling sorry for the other guy. Flint didn't look particularly pleased.

 

“Listen Flint, I'm not going to forgive you.” he murmured.

 

“I don't want you to forgive me, Wood. I want you to give me a second chance.” the man said, turning to face Oliver.

 

“You do realise that to give you a second chance I have to forgive you first, right?” Oliver asked.

 

Flint snorted again. “Why do you have to be like this?”

 

“Like this what? Reasonable?”

 

“No.” Flint rolled his eyes. “Not reasonable. Smarter than me.”

 

“It doesn't take much, you know.” Oliver joked.

 

“Yeah, I know.” Flint replied sadly.

 

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Oliver knew he had to talk, but he didn't know what to say. Or better, he knew what he wanted to say, and it scared the shit out of him.

 

“I could give it to you, you know.” he blunted out, hoping Flint wouldn't hear him.

 

“I'm sorry. What?”

 

“A second chance. I could give it. To you.” why was Oliver this awkward, he didn't know.

 

Flint couldn't believe him. Oliver didn't blame him. “Are you serious?”

 

Oliver thought about it, and then nodded. “It's... it's stupid but I can't stop thinking about... what ifs, about maybes. And I hate it. So I want to try it. This. What the fucking universe thought was a good match.” Oliver explained slowly, taking his time to choose the words.

 

Flint nodded. “I understand.”

 

“Good.” Oliver sighed. “Will this mean that you won't send me letters anymore? I kind of got used to read them at breakfast.”

 

Flint laughed. “I will keep writing, if you write to me too.”

 

Oliver glared at him. “This doesn't mean I forgave you.” he pointed out.

 

Flint chuckled. “Sure.”

 

“It doesn't!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

 

“I'm serious!”

 

*

 

Their first date was a disaster.

 

They were both too nervous and ended up talking bout the weather during dinner. It was weird and uncomfortable and Oliver felt like dying. He also felt kind of cheated by the universe. Was that really his fucking soulmate?

 

At some point, though, they stopped being so nervous, Flint because he had realized Oliver wouldn't hex him in the middle of a Muggle restaurant and Oliver because the food was too good to be mad at anyone.

 

So yeah, maybe not a complete disaster.

 

Their second date was way better.

 

They didn't plan it, they just met after a match – Marcus might have been there to cheer on Oliver, or maybe not since he was the fucking owner of the Tornados and he couldn't really cheer anybody else, not in public at least – and they just decided to go to drink something to a pub.

 

It was easy. Oliver reminded himself that yes, soulmates are supposed to be easy.

 

It was easy to laugh at Marcus complaining about his players – most of them drama queens, but Oliver kept saying that Marcus was the biggest drama queen of them all, so he shouldn't really have judged others.

 

They didn't even drink much. They just talked, about nothing and everything and Oliver felt overwhelmed.

 

He knew that a small part of him would never forgive Marcus for being a scared seventeen years old closeted boy, but in his heart he knew that forgiveness was a lot easier than he thought, when grey eyes stared at him with that much joy.

 

After their third date, Marcus decided to call Oliver 'lion cub'. Oliver hated it.

 

After their fourth date, Marcus decided that ' _ my _ lion cub' was better. Oliver hated it a little less, but he didn't stop complaining.

 

After their fifth date, Oliver decided he didn't care anymore, and he stopped arguing about nicknames.

 

After six months, they moved in together in an apartment so big Marcus allowed Oliver to adopt three cats, that were  _ not _ named after three famous Scottish Quidditch players, it was only a coincidence. And Oliver was traded to the Tornados, because moving in kind of made it official, and Oliver didn't want his teammates to think he slept with the enemy.

 

It wasn't as easy as his parents had made him think it would be, Oliver thought one morning, when he woke up before Marcus, with the other man's head resting on his chest.

 

They fought. A lot. About everything. About how many cats they should have in their house – six is not too many, Oliver was quite sure about that. About Quidditch formations – why not put Frey on the team? The little girl was fierce and quick and she was the only Chaser who really listened to Oliver when he shouted from the poles, she would be an amazing addition to the team. About the film to watch, the restaurants to go to, the friends to go out with.

 

But it was so incredibly easy, Oliver thought looking at Marcus stir and smile and say hello by planting a kiss on his collarbone, right where the words 'lion cub' were inked on his skin.

 

So easy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi :)  
> 


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